


Sleeper Hit

by HankTalking



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cinderella Elements, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:55:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HankTalking/pseuds/HankTalking
Summary: When it came to going undercover, the Demoman wasn't exactly Spy’s first choice.
Relationships: Demoman/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Sleeper Hit

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to WritingDispenser for looking over this for me!

Demo wasn’t his last choice for a partner—Sniper, Scout, Pyro, and Soldier were of course all out of the question, Engineer was too fretful over his etiquette, Medic wasn’t fretful enough—but nor was he the Spy’s first choice. No Spy’s first choice had been Heavy: a perfect compliment to all Spy’s weaknesses, devoid of annoying habits, and dependable to boot. Heavy was both physically intimidating and unlikely to cause trouble, he was quiet when he needed to be, and had the ability to feign not understanding English, opening up a whole host of opportunities when going this deep undercover. People often let things slip if they thought present company was beneath their worry.

However, it had seemed Heavy was not in the market for this particular excursion. He had wanted to go home this furlough, and so when Miss Pauling had _strongly suggested_ he accompany Spy on this venture at his teammate’s request, he had declined. Before that very moment, Spy hadn’t realized it was _possible_ to refuse a direct mission statement from BLU Command, but apparently it was feasible if one said _no_ firmly enough and was also the Heavy Weapons Guy.

So, Spy was left with his number two, which was starting to show the gap between silver and gold since the Demoman had decided to _pout_ about it.

“Get dressed,” Spy said, throwing Demo’s suit at him. Usually he’d never be so callous with such fine eveningwear, but the Demoman’s dedication to his sullen child bit had already wound his patience like a spring. “We’ll be missed down at the party if we don’t hurry.

Demo peeled the fabric suit protector off his face. “What happened to fashionably late?”

“This _is_ fashionably late,” Spy said, adjusting his tie in the closet mirror. “Any longer and we’ll just be late.”

Demo grumbled quietly to himself. He’d been doing that ever since they’d gotten off the plane, and Spy was starting to lament ever rating him above Medic. In all their time working together Spy had never thought of Demo as a pain (though that may because his years on BLU had started to erode his standards of what he could personally put up with), but something about this trip to Cancun had turned the mercenary from a reasonable if (inebriated) man into a downright menace.

“They had a piano down in the lobby,” Demo mentioned offhand as he futzed with his own tie.

“Yes? And?”

“And it was downright terrible.” The scrap of fabric (the $3,000 scrap of fabric that Demo was just letting flop all over the place) finally fell into place. “Poor kid, obviously didn’t know what she was doing.”

“One of Arnett’s relations, most likely,” Spy replied dismissively. “Are we really wasting time discussing the entertainment? If we want to catch Arnett before he makes his speech, we need to go. _Now_. I do not know what has gotten into you, but if I wanted a _child_ as my backup for this mission I would have brought Scout.”

Demo shot him a look that might have withered a lesser man. “You’re a real prick, you know.”

“And _you_ are descended from three separate lines of Scottish royalty. _Act like it_.”

Great, now he was _scowling_. Exactly what Spy needed.

Spy paid it no mind, and put a hand on the suite door. “I am heading to the elevator. If you have not joined me in ninety seconds, I am leaving without you.” With that, had turned the knob, and stepped out into the hallway.

* * *

“There,” Spy said discreetly but clearly, as avoiding lip readers was a delicate art he had been training his whole life for, and countered by barely moving his jaw at all. “Sabine Arnett, owner of this fine establishment, richest man in Quintana Roo, and our target for the night. He’s hosting this gala for the next three days in honor of his daughter’s quinceañera, and we have exactly that time to find when and where his smuggled shipment of Australium is headed.”

“What?” Demo huffed quietly into Spy’s ear. “I cannae understand a word you’re saying when you mumble like that.”

Spy sighed. “Never mind. Just follow my lead.”

Arnett was greeting every guest with the upmost grace and charm, switching seamlessly between Spanish and English that made even Spy envious, his callers hanging on his every word. As the pair of undercover mercenaries approached, Spy watched Demo swipe a champagne glass off the tray of a passing waiter and down the thing in one gulp. Spy rolled his eyes.

“Ah!” Arnett greeted with a broad smile, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes betraying not only his age but that he was in surprisingly good health for it. “The D’Villes I must presume. So wonderful of you to make it.”

Spy took the man’s hand (firm, gloved, good strength most likely from something besides a smugglers standard piece. A propensity for knives, perhaps?) and returned the shake. “It was our pleasure, Monsieur Arnett. Marcel D’Ville, absolutely delighted by your gorgeous hotel.”

“You are too kind.” Arnett took one of those impressively strong hands and placed it over his heart. “I hope all the accommodations were to your satisfaction, sir…?”

This last he addressed to Demo, who swallowed visibly both at the question and that he was the target of it. By god, was the man sweating? Spy had seen the Demoman run full tilt at a level three sentry but _now_ was when he decided to fall apart?

“Er…Finn,” Demo coughed out. “And everything’s been lovely.”

Spy watched Arnett’s face, looking for any chance his fool coworker had blown their cover, but their host was as impeccable as ever. He applied a friendly clap to Demo’s back and said, “wonderful! Though do have a few refreshments my friend. You look a bit unwell.”

Deciding it was time to come to the Demoman’s rescue, Spy slid up and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Please forgive my husband, he doesn’t do well on long plane rides. I’m sure a day more in your exquisite lodgings will set him right again.”

Demo, who had been taking a swig of his champagne glass, promptly choked so hard it came out his nose.

“Er…sorry…” he said as Arnett raised an eyebrow at him. He offered up the glass and said, “strong stuff…?”

Thankfully, they were saved anyone else being added to the bail out chain by the chime of a giant clock. Who even installed those in ballrooms anymore?

“Ah, well, if you’ll both excuse me,” Arnett said with a polite bow. “Finn, Marcel, enjoy the party.”

“Of course. _Merci_.” With the hand that wasn’t still holding onto the Demoman, Spy gave a small wave.

Their target departed, moving through the crowd and ascending a small stage where he rose to greet his guests. As soon as he began his speech, Demo rounded on Spy.

“ _Husband?_ ” he snapped. “What exactly is _that_ about?”

“Keep your voice down!” It was unlikely they would be heard over the polite clapping and Arnett’s generous welcoming of his “friends” (smugglers and weapons dealers all) but it was still an annoyance. “Exactly as I said, for tonight at the very least. We are the D’Villes, prolific entrepreneurs known for our generosity when it comes to supporting our family friends, even the less legal ones. What did you _think_ those rings were for?” Spy asked, gesturing at the band on the Demoman’s hand.

“You said they were for our cover.”

“ _Yes_. Our cover as being _married_.”

“I dinnae think you meant _to_ _each other_.”

“Our suite only had one bed, Demo,” Spy said drily. That got an awkward silence out of Demo, who pulled back like a startled cat. Likely he hadn’t even noticed with how much he’d been brooding. “And _keep your voice down_. It wouldn’t do to have people think we’re having marital troubles, would it, _Finn_?”

“Oh don’t get on me for _that_ ,” Demo grumbled. “I panicked. You didn’t tell me we’d have to come up with fake names.”

“We aren’t. Marcel _is_ my name.”

“Oh,” Demo blinked. “Oh.” The two of them watched the remainder of Arnett’s speech for its last few minutes, not looking at each other, at least until Demo concluded with a, “ _Marcel?_ ”

Spy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It is the name I use most commonly when ‘the Spy’ will not do. If you are looking for birth name, you will be sorely disappointed.” A wrinkle of applause swept through the crowd, signaling the end of the speech. Spy brought his hand to the small of Demo’s back. “Come. Let’s see if we can make a distraction.”

There wasn’t so much a _line_ to get Arnett as a _gaggle_ , various couples and socialites all bobbing around the subject of interest and settling for talking to each other instead. With some careful maneuvering, and a few none-to-subtle elbows, Spy managed to get them both to the inner circle.

“My dear niece Lydia,” Arnett was busy introducing a wilting pre-teen to the assembly. “Her tutor is simply the finest, wouldn’t you agree?”

The lemmings all chattered in agreement.

“That was a Fazioli Brunei she was playing, wasn’t it?” Spy chimed in easily. “A beautiful instrument, how ever did you acquire one?”

Arnett puffed up immediately, and the child he had been presenting took the opportunity to slip out from under his arm. The crowd, who at an individual level all feigned interest about imported pianos, hid their distaste at his interruption.

“Ah, a man of the arts I see!” Arnett gushed. “You must play then, yes?”

“Me? Only a little. My husband however,” Spy grabbed a hold of Demo, who had already acquired his third champagne glass, and now looked around in surprise at being dragged into the limelight, “is an amazing pianist. Played at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall just this summer.”

“Oh, I er…” Demo’s eye flicked around rapidly, eventually landing on Spy in a clear question of _what are you doing?_ “It’s nothing really…”

“He’s so modest.” Spy had a long and lavish education in the art of feigning desire, and knew exactly where to place his hand on Demo’s shoulder to show both affection and restraint. Palm curled in just so, indicating to the observer that you want do more but social convention holds you back. “Truly, I wish you all had a chance to hear him.

The peanut gallery was none to happy with Spy upstaging them, but he needed Arnett occupied. Their host beamed, “well then! You should come try out the Brunei Mr. D’Ville, there can never be enough entertainment for the night, yes?”

Demo looked like he wanted to commit murder through eye contact alone. After seeing what the man’s missing eye was capable of, Spy thought that was less out of the realm of possibility than usual, and made sure to take his leave quickly as the Demoman was swept up in the crowd of “eager” spectators. Even if he was being monstrously difficult, Spy hoped he could trust his accomplice to keep an eye on Arnett for a minute or two.

The locks on the first floor of the venue were laughably easy to pick. After a few rooms of shuffling through cruise marketing and laundry expenses, Spy took that as a sign. He moved to the second, then the third. When he finally found a bolt that that took him for than five minutes to pick, he decided he was getting somewhere.

“ _Magnifique_ ,” Spy remarked as he cracked open the desk and the bountiful contents spilled out before him.

Here were much juicier transactions, some that had already been crafted tonight in still drying ink. No doubt Arnett was taking every chance to court business opportunities out of his guests, as one didn’t gather so many criminals in once place for the hell of it. Quietly, as he scanned over rolls of documents with naught but his pen light, he wondered if he and Demo would be invited behind one of these closed doors before the party was through. An amusing thought to say the least.

There! That sum matched too perfectly the expected amount of Australium.

Less perfect was the lack of details. Tuesday morning it seemed, an exact time for the exchange but…that was all. When it was happening was useless without a location, and if he took too long to find it, there was a chance Pauling might not be able to intercept the delivery in time. _Maddening_. Didn’t people know how to keep caches full of important information anymore?

Spy’s temper was further heightened by the grand bell chiming the hour. He would have to get back now, abandoning his search until tomorrow at the very earliest. He sighed, tucking the accounts back in place, then placing the discreet piece of tape back over the drawer. Hopefully no one had missed him.

* * *

A great crowd had gathered when he made his way down to the ballroom. Always his first instinct, he prepared for some sort of change in plans, some sort of great disaster, but as he approached [the sound of music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vld48XOQ9HI) soothed his nerves. Demo was playing. Demo was playing _fantastically_ , and as Spy approached it seemed like the man was hardly there at all, his eye closed as his fingers moved across the keys, being taken somewhere the rest of them could only catch the faintest glimpse of.

Spy leaned against a pillar and watched.

Of course he had known Demo was good, but between the rather energy intensive events under which he’d last gotten a chance to hear him, just _how_ good had slipped his mind. As he stood there, shoulder pressed against the Corinthian (a Corinthian? Honestly? The gaudiness of this place was really starting to wear) he felt himself being…well, swept up. Just watching the way Demo’s hands moved, the peaceful expression that sent and odd feeling up the back of Spy’s throat, as though he hadn’t swallowed in some time. When the music finally stopped, Demo looked just as startled as Spy felt, as though surprised to find himself suddenly surrounded by people giving him a warm round of applause.

Hastily, Spy inserted himself back at the front of the crowd, doing his best impression of a proud and adoring lover as he took Demo’s arm. “Wonderful _mon chéri_ , absolutely wonderful.”

But, to Spy’s confusion, Demo’s face only hardened as Arnett approached them once more. He had planned to dole out a genuine congratulations for keeping both Arnett and a good chunk of the crowd occupied for so long, but as soon as the appropriate pleasantries were exchanged and it was clear they were done for the night, Demo charged right off, mumbling about turning in for the night.

* * *

“You take the bed. I know you’ll get all prissy about your hair or your thousand thread count silk pajamas or whatever otherwise. I can do without your bitching.” As he said it, Demo stalked over to the immaculate chair in the corner of their room and threw off his jacket.

Spy undressed in silence. He hadn’t gotten a word in as they made it up to their room, and now was no different; he felt oddly at a loss as he watched his coworker shuffle about in his suitcase.

“We made progress tonight,” Spy reported with his back turned, hanging his suit back in the closet.

All Demo offered was a grunt. “Well great. Sooner we get out of here the better.”

“Ah, no actually. Even if we find our information, we do have to stay here all three nights in order to maintain our cover.”

“…Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Demo spared Spy no more words as he curled into the armchair and faced the wall.

Likewise, Spy dressed down to his sleeping clothes. Despite Demo’s commentary he didn’t actually have any pajamas that would make sleeping in an unfamiliar bed any more bearable. (He did, however, have a very nice silk robe at his rarely used apartment in Marseille, but it was far too fine to risk on a job like this.) Instead, he turned off the bedside lamp and let the two of them fall into silence.

Not that either of them were fooling the other. Demo’s breathing was too irregular to be that of a man at rest, and Spy didn’t feel like pretending just to avoid a conversation. He asked, eventually, “might I ask what has you so irate about our mission here?”

“What do you care?” Demo sniped back.

“I _care_ -” Spy cut himself off. _Because it is affecting our mission_ didn’t seem right for the moment, nor even particularly true, so he said, “because it is obviously affecting you.”

“Yeah yeah, acting like a child. Heard you the first time. Shove it down yer windsack, Spy.”

“…I apologize for my rather…malign…comments earlier. It is only because…” Spy stared forward in the dark, barely making out the still life of some mice on the wall in front of him, a dreadful that the designer no doubt thought was in good taste but merely went to prove that they had no idea what to do with all their wealth. “Usually I expect much more from you. To have you nearly bite our chauffer’s head off was a shock.”

There was a brief intake from the other side of the room.

“I just hate this,” Demo said. “All of this. The showboating, the bragging, everyone got something to prove. But not good things to prove like how fast you can make a IED with just grain dust and chicken wire, but proving stuff that doesn’t matter. How many suits o’ armor you got, how many duchesses your great-great-grandfather shagged.”

“But Mum, she bought into that stuff like crazy. Dragged me along to all o’ those, stuffing me into little outfits…I never got why. It’s not like we were ever going impress any o’ those fancy distant relations, they weren’t going to throw pity money at us or nothing. They _hated_ her, hated me too.”

“…It sounds like she was just looking for acceptance,” Spy offered gently. It was a story he felt he had heard a dozen times before.

Demo snorted. “She was the only one then. Da didn’t care, he picked her over his family right from the get-go, dinnae mind one bit if they disapproved. And me? I just wanted out you know, get it over with, all the _preening_ , the _you’ll never hear what Tavish did_ bollox.” His frustration was obviously mounting, his near speaking volume seeming upsettingly loud in the still suite. “It was all so pointless, the playdates with some snob cousin twice removed, the fancy food, the stupid _fucking_ piano lessons where I’d just to sit and practice and my fingers would get all chapped ‘n bloody but I’d just have to keep going-”

The rant sputtered to a halt. There was the quick sound of fabric rustling, the distinctive swish of someone pulling a blanket tighter around himself. Spy waited, but there was only ashamed silence, as though Demo were afraid he’d said too much.

After awhile, Spy revolted against the presses of dead air bearing down on him. He said softly, “I am sorry. Again. I…would not have asked you here had I know you felt so strongly about these sorts of events.”

“Mm. Ain’t that your job to know everything about us?” There was grunt and a flop against one of the armrests. “Ach, nevermind, I didn’t mean that. You digging around in my life is the _last_ thing I want.”

“You know, I _do_ like to hear people talk about themselves for reasons outside the professional,” Spy said gently, trying to bring the barest hint of levity back into the conversation. “Especially people I consider friends.”

“…You’re ah…you’re not going to go writing all this down in one of those files o’ yours, are you?”

The genuine concern, the distress Demo had barely been keeping under the surface through this whole venture was now painfully apparent in his voice, and Spy felt a stab of guilt for ignoring it before.

“Of course not,” he told the tacky mouse painting. “On my honor.”

There was what might have been a cynical laugh, but Demo let it slide. “Thanks Spy.”

“Do not mention it.”


End file.
